Chastity
The café crowd vanished behind us, but the moment I settled into Wyatt's passenger seat, my phone erupted. Not a gentle buzz. A full-blown assault.
Notifications flooded the screen so fast they blurred together. Mentions. Tags. Messages. Texts from numbers I didn't recognize. Group chats I'd been added to without permission. My social media accounts lit up like someone had set them on fire.
I stared at the screen. Watched the numbers climb. Felt my throat constrict.
I didn't look. Couldn't. Locked the phone and set it face-down in my lap like that would somehow make it stop.
Wyatt glanced over. Once. Brief. Clinical assessment written all over his expression. "You should check it."
My laugh came out bitter. "Why? So I can have a panic attack in your passenger seat? Hard pass."
He snorted. Not mocking—amused. Like I'd said something unexpectedly entertaining. "Better to control the narrative than hide from it."
I hated when he was right. Hated the calm logic in his voice. Hated that he'd probably already anticipated this exact reaction and filed it away as predictable.
I unlocked my phone with shaking fingers. And the world detonated.
The first thing I saw was the photo. That photo.
The one they'd captured outside the café.
Wyatt's arm wrapped around my waist. My hand resting against his chest. His head angled down toward mine.
My face tilted up toward his. We looked…
intimate. Real. Like two people who'd touched each other a thousand times before and would again without thinking.
The headline beneath it twisted something sharp in my chest:
"New Couple Alert: Wyatt 'The Bounty Hunter' Garrison Goes Public with Thomas Harrington's Daughter"
Beneath that, another:
"Age Gap Romance: 36-Year-Old NHL Vet Spotted with 22-Year-Old College Grad"
And another:
"From Secret Rendezvous to Coffee Dates—Timeline of Wyatt Garrison's Mystery Relationship"
My stomach dropped. Kept dropping. Like I'd stepped off a cliff and hadn't hit bottom yet.
I scrolled. Comments poured in faster than I could read them.
She's gorgeous. Lucky girl.
He looks OBSESSED.
Daddy issues much?
Gold digger.
She must be special if he went public.
This won't last.
My vision blurred. Pressure built behind my eyes. I blinked hard. Refused to let tears fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
"This is insane."
Wyatt's expression didn't shift. Eyes on the road. Hands steady on the wheel. "It's standard."
I shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Not everyone expects to be publicly disemboweled at nine a.m."
"It's 10:14."
My fingers tightened around my phone. For half a second, I genuinely considered hurling it at his smug face. Watch it bounce off that perfectly controlled jaw. See if he'd flinch.
He wouldn't. We both knew it.
Instead, I locked the screen again. Pressed my palm against my thigh to stop the trembling. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm tolerating this." He signaled. Changed lanes with the precision of someone who never made careless movements. "There's a difference."
"Oh, forgive me. I forgot you're suffering too." Sarcasm dripped from every syllable. "Must be exhausting, watching your plan work exactly as you designed it."
That earned me a glance. Quick. Sharp. Assessing.
"You think I planned for you to look at me like that?"
Heat crawled up my neck. "Like what?"
"Like you forgot the cameras existed."
My breath caught. "I didn't—"
"You did." He pulled into his driveway. Killed the engine. Turned to face me fully for the first time since we'd left the café. "That photo works because you sold it. Not me."
The accusation landed like a slap. My chest tightened with something between fury and shame.
"I was scared. Overwhelmed. Trying not to completely fall apart in front of strangers who think they know me." I leaned closer. Close enough to see the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. "So forgive me if my survival instinct looked convincing to you."
His jaw ticked. The only sign I'd hit something. Then he opened his door. Got out. Rounded the car with that predator-calm stride that made my pulse jump every damn time. He opened my door before I could reach for the handle. Extended a hand.
I stared at it. At him. "We're home," I said flatly. "No cameras here."
"Habit." His voice dropped lower. "Better get used to it."
I ignored his hand. Climbed out myself. Shoulder brushing his chest as I pushed past. His quiet laugh followed me all the way to the door. It behind us with a soft click that felt too final. Like sealing a tomb.
I stood in the entryway, buzzing. Nerves crawled under my skin, electric and relentless. My phone burned in my pocket. The weight of thousands of eyes I'd never meet pressed down on my shoulders.
Wyatt moved past me without a word. Shed his jacket.
Draped it over the back of a chair with the same controlled precision he brought to everything else.
He crossed to the kitchen. Pulled a glass from the cabinet.
Filled it with water from the tap. Drank half of it in two swallows.
Annoyingly calm. Completely unbothered. Like we hadn't just been photographed and dissected and turned into entertainment for strangers.
I followed him. Couldn't help it. The silence scraped against my already frayed nerves. "People think we're… into each other."
The words tumbled out sharper than I meant. Heat crawled up my neck the second they landed.
He set the glass down. Leaned one hip against the counter. Studied me with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Good. That's the goal."
I stared at him. Waited for the punchline. The smirk. Something to indicate he understood how mortifying this was.
Nothing.
"It's humiliating."
He shrugged. One shoulder. Effortless dismissal. "Only if you let it be."
My mouth fell open. Actual shock rendered me momentarily speechless.
Then I found my voice. "Oh sure, let me just decide to not feel human emotions today." I crossed my arms. Gripped my elbows to stop my hands from shaking. "I'll pencil that in right after I learn to breathe underwater and fly."
His eyebrow lifted. Not mocking. Almost… impressed? "You survived a café full of cameras. You'll survive this."
I wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted him to stop being so maddeningly steady while I felt like I was coming apart at the seams.
Instead, I muttered, "I'm not sure."
The words came out smaller than I intended. More honest.
Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Weighted with something I couldn't name.
"You will."
His voice softened. By a fraction. Barely enough to register. But I heard it. Two words. Simple. Matter-of-fact. Not reassurance. Not comfort. Just certainty. Like he'd already decided the outcome and my doubt was irrelevant.
It threw me off more than the cameras had. More than his touch at the café. More than the photos trending across the internet. Because for half a second—one breathless, confusing moment—I almost believed him.
My throat tightened. I looked away. Studied the pristine countertop like it held answers I desperately needed. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Act like none of this affects you."
His expression shifted. Barely. A shadow crossing his features too fast to catch. "Practice."
One word. Loaded with something dark I didn't understand yet.
I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. Felt suddenly exposed in his kitchen. In his house. In this life I never asked for.
I backed away from the counter. Put the kitchen island between us like it could somehow create actual distance from whatever this was.
Wyatt moved to the dining table. Pulled out his phone with that casual authority that made everything feel inevitable. "We're not done."
I blinked. "What do you mean we're not done?"
"A relationship doesn't begin with a coffee date." He scrolled through his phone without looking up. "We need progression."
My arms folded across my chest automatically. Defensive. "Progression?"
He nodded. Still didn't look at me. "Home-life photos. Casual touches. Being seen together multiple days in a row. Dinner tomorrow."
The words registered slowly. Like my brain needed extra time to process the absurdity.
"Dinner—tomorrow—again? Wyatt, the internet is already hyperventilating."
"Good."
That single word. Flat. Final. Like he'd just declared the sky green and expected no argument.
I dropped my head onto the table with a groan. The cool surface pressed against my forehead. Offered zero comfort but I stayed there, anyway.
"I hate this."
"No, you don't."
My head snapped up fast enough to make me dizzy. "I absolutely do."
He tilted his head. Studied me the way someone might examine a puzzle they'd already solved but found mildly entertaining, anyway. "You handled yourself better than you think."
The words landed somewhere soft. Unexpected. Like he'd reached past my defenses without warning and touched something raw.
A pause stretched between us.
My heart betrayed me with a little flutter. Traitorous organ. Completely unreliable.
I hated that too.
"That doesn't make this easier." My voice came out quieter than I meant. More honest than I wanted.
He set his phone down. Leaned back in the chair. Arms crossed. Mirror image of my defensive posture but somehow he made it look commanding instead of protective.
"It's not supposed to be easy." His gaze held mine. Steady. Unflinching. "It's supposed to be believable."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him there was a difference between believable and sustainable. That I couldn't keep performing every single day. That eventually something would crack and everyone would see through the facade.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Because part of me—a part I absolutely refused to acknowledge—wondered if the performance had already started feeling less like acting and more like something I couldn't name yet.
"How long do we keep this up?" I finally asked. "After dinner tomorrow. Then what?"
He picked his phone back up. Started typing something. "Then we see what your father needs next."